God of the Rodeo
Page 30
The warden’s kingdom will soon be sealed.
It is a place I think back on with despair, a place I left with no soothing affirmation of God’s presence. But I did see men struggling to rise, men whose efforts made me wonder constantly: What do we owe them?
A thousand times I repeated to myself all the reasons one could answer: Nothing. We owe them nothing. They have destroyed other lives; what obligates us to help in reconstructing theirs? What is our duty beyond protecting ourselves, our society, by putting them away?
Yet we are their keepers. They may need or deserve to be kept, but it is precisely in making this decision that we take on responsibility. We take control of their lives. And so, unavoidably, we are obligated. We owe them something more than a perverse rodeo as a vehicle for self-improvement and a way to make themselves known. We owe them our help and our attention. We cannot both claim and forget them.
For within them, there is possibility. Look, one last time, at Littell. Imagine stirring your own shit to douse your neighbor as he leaves his house. Imagine your life revolving around that. And measure the distance between that and the life Littell is now making for himself. He is working for a small trucking company, driving a route between Oregon and Georgia. He calls me every so often from truck stops. In his need to “establish” himself, he drives at least the legal limit of ten hours per day. He earns twenty-three cents per mile. He pays his expenses on the road. It is not much of a living, but it is a living, and when he calls he says he is doing great, that the job is excellent, that his boss is fair and prizes him for the relentless effort he puts in. And he reports that this country, all the land he passes, is “fucking beautiful.” Try to measure the distance between what Littell was and who he is now. It is impossible. The distance is infinite. Or nonexistent. For both then and now are contained in one person.
And in that, there may be a sign for all of us.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Endless thanks to my agent, Suzanne Gluck, and, for their faith and excellent guidance, to my editors, Steve Ross and Ayesha Pande. Huge gratitude also to Colin Harrison, Lewis Lapham, and Harper’s magazine. And to Cynthia Fox, William Hogeland, Roland Kelts, and Laura Marmor, great appreciation for readings and criticism that, at various stages, helped to shape this story.
Beyond the literary part of this project, I owe a debt to more people than I can name. But without the perfect counsel of two lawyers, William D’Armond and Bradley Myers, this book might not exist. Saul B. Shapiro also gave invaluable legal advice in moments of panic. And were it not for the late Alvin B. Rubin, esteemed judge of the U.S. Court of Appeals for the Fifth Circuit, I would never have come to know Louisiana and the Angola rodeo in the first place.
Brian Belfiglio, Alexia Brue, and Elissa Wald all gave vital support in seeing the book through, and Jane Praeger committed extraordinary effort and intelligence to the publication process. Many, many thanks as well to Joanne Wyckoff for all her work on the paperback.
My coverage of Angola’s history relies heavily on several sources: Ann Butler and C. Murray Henderson’s Angola: A Half-Century of Rage and Reform (Lafayette, Louisiana: The Center for Louisiana Studies, 1990); Mark Carleton’s Politics and Punishment: The History of the Louisiana State Penal System (Baton Rouge: Louisiana State University Press, 1980); The Wall Is Strong: Corrections in Louisiana, edited by Burk Foster, Wilbert Rideau, and Douglas Dennis (Lafayette, Louisiana: The Center for Louisiana Studies, 1995); Life Sentences: Rage and Survival Behind Bars, edited by Wilbert Rideau and Ron Wilkberg (New York: Times Books, 1992); the generously shared and prodigious unpublished research of former Angola assistant warden Roger Thomas; and the work of the Angolite, whose modern editors have been Michael Glover, Tommy Mason, Wilbert Rideau, Billy Sinclair, and Ron Wilkberg.
But how to thank all the people who put up with my hours and hours, days and days, months and months of questioning? In the cases of many inmates and employees, I cannot thank them; they would rather not be named. Yet I can express my gratitude to Keith Nordyke, civil rights attorney long involved with the prison, for returning my relentless calls and providing indispensable analysis on a wide range of issues. I am indebted as well to former warden C. Murray Henderson, who is, unfairly, scarcely mentioned in the book but whose unflagging belief in rehabilitation is an inspiration. I want to thank Hayes Williams, lead plaintiff in the 1971 lawsuit, for his recollections. And I think it is safe to print my gratitude to two inmates with whom I spent a great deal of time but who were not, finally, part of this narrative, Leotis Webster and Tyrone Jack. To them, to the men who form the core of this book, and to all the others: Your patience and honesty were crucial to me and, I hope in the end, important to everyone’s understanding.
Finally, I want to thank my father: a moral guide.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
DANIEL BERGNER is a journalist and author of the novel Moments of Favor. He lives with his wife and two children in New York City.